


Norway is For Lovers

by missmollyetc



Category: Numb3rs
Genre: AU, Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-27
Updated: 2009-12-27
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:32:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missmollyetc/pseuds/missmollyetc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Shameless, shameless smut.  And Spies!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Norway is For Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> I AM NOT A WELL WOMAN.

  
  
  
**Entry tags:** |   
[au](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/au), [numb3rs](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/numb3rs), [soldier](http://missmollyetc.livejournal.com/tag/soldier)  
  
---|---  
  
_ **NUMB3RS FIC: Norway is For Lovers (1/1)** _

Title: Norway is For Lovers

Pairing(s): Charlie/Don

Rating: NC-17

Warning(s): Incest. SO MUCH INCEST.

Summary: Shameless, shameless smut.

Author's Notes: I AM NOT A WELL WOMAN.

Disclaimer: Numb3rs belongs to some company and not me. The only things I own are Herschel my ancient laptop, and some rather natty pajamas. WHICH I WILL DEFEND UNTO MY OWN DESTRUCTION. BRING IT, CBS.

 

 

 

"Come on buddy," Don said over the wire. "We've got to move."

Charlie raised his hands from the keyboard, flexed his fingers, then brought them back down and entered the next piece of code. His fingers trembled. The rifle muzzle pointed at his head didn't.

"Maskinskriver passordet!"

"Who the fuck is that?" Colby yelled down the line. "Who's with the little professor?"

The man with the rifle, blond with a beard, didn't work at this installation, or else Charlie would have been painting the keyboard with his brains. So. A rival then. He didn't recognize the language.

"He's speaking Norwegian," Terry's voice said, slightly canned through the bug in Charlie's ear. "He must think you work there. Got your knife?"

Charlie bit his lip. A knot coiled beneath his ribs, rough and binding. His knife…he could feel it in his pocket, weighing down his jeans, but the man with the rifle was at point blank range. No time for anything but calculating the range of his own blood spatter on the computer screen.

"I'm on the fourth floor," Don said. "I'm in the stair well."

At a fast pace, Don usually traveled approximately twe--

The blond man kicked the back of Charlie's chair, shoving his stomach into the table. Charlie grimaced, and tried to suck back in the air he'd expelled. The knot in his chest tightened past discomfort and straight into pain.

"I'm on my way," Don said.

He was coming, he _was_. He always came no matter what happened or--

The rifle muzzle cracked into his forehead, throwing him back in the rolling chair. The wheels screeched across the floor, banging the chair into the next table. Charlie's head snapped back, hair flying.

"Er De døv? _Maskinskriver passordet!_"

"Stans!" Don yelled, and Charlie didn't like the ragged edge in his voice.

Charlie shook his head, trying to reorient his vision. Something warm and wet kept getting in his eyes.

"Stans! _Say it!_" Don said.

"Stans," Charlie mumbled.

He heard panting in his ear, heavy and rough, oddly doubled in his hearing, but Donny was too far away for it to be real. In and out, Don'd said. Upload the program, futz with the security files, and be back in time for dinner, Coin Toss Choice.

"Louder!"

"Stans," Charlie tried again, clearing his throat. "Don?"

"Shit," Don swore. "Almost there. Stall the fucker."

"Hvem?"

Charlie raised his hand and covered his eyes, pressing right on the ache above his eyebrow. His fingers came back sticky. He looked up at his palm, mottled red and white.

"Stans," he said.

He swallowed. They'd practiced for when this would happen, and Practice Made Perfect. Extending one foot, he rocked, carefully, forward. The dead man with the rifle backed up, keeping Charlie covered. Charlie inched the rolling chair back to the computer station, putting both hands on the armrests.

"Down!" David yelled over the wire.

The door exploded. Shrapnel flew past Charlie's head and impaled the computer equipment behind him. Electrical wiring snapped and sparked, the smell of ozone bloomed in the smoke. Charlie hit the floor, worming underneath the nearest table and tucking an arm around his head. The man with the rifle pivoted, snapping the muzzle up, and staggered back, reeling under a short burst of gunfire.

The man fell to the floor parallel to Charlie's cover. He lay on flat, dust in his hair and blood bubbling from his mouth. He kicked at the floor, scuttling on his back, and Charlie reached into his pocket for his knife. The metal hilt fit neatly into his palm, a Christmas gift from Colby. He flicked off the sheath with one finger.

Footsteps. He looked up as Don rushed the room, leading with his M-16. David followed close behind, racking another shot into rifle.

"Charlie?" he called, sweeping for hostiles.

The blond man gurgled. His hands spasmed on his rifle stock. Charlie got his free hand under him and lunged, knife hand extended. He landed half on the man's chest as the blade sunk into his throat. He stopped, twisting the knife deeper until he hit spine. Blood loss stopped the wound from spurting, but liquid flowed over Charlie's fingers.

The man's eyes were very blue.

He hated this part. The knot in Charlie's chest seized, jerking the breath from his lungs and shattering it to the floor. Then, hands gripped his shoulders and pulled him off the corpse. Arms pulled him in tight.

"Good--good job, buddy," Don said. "You did real good."

Don kissed his temple, and his lips came back bloody. His eyes narrowed, cold and dark. Charlie winced, raised a hand, and the tip of the knife suddenly wavered between them. Don grabbed his wrist and forced it aside.

"We've got to go," David said. He stood by the door, riding their six, and only glanced inside the room once. "Security's on its way."

Charlie blinked and for the first time heard a claxon, high pitched and squealing. He took a step forward, and then another, and suddenly they were running out through the main hall and down a side shaft, David on point and Don bringing up the rear. Charlie's feet pounded in time to the ringing in his ears.

 

***

 

"You did good," Don said. He took a deep breath, slinging his rifle onto his shoulder. "You did just what you were supposed to."

Charlie nodded, swallowing. He tapped his fingers on the seams of his jeans, rippling fast like arpeggios. The knot in his chest hadn't loosed its grip. Instead, it grew with each breathe, each centimeter of distance between Don and himself.

"He put a gun to my head," Charlie said.

Don's hands flexed at his gunbelt, rough and perfect. "That's why I shot him."

Charlie nodded, glancing down at the trash in the alley. The hired van had been abandoned six miles from the rendezvous point, and now his sneakers _and_ his shirt were ruined. He rubbed the blood stains together. Already dry. That'd never come out. He'd have to put it in the dumpster with Don's tac vest before they left to meet the others.

And, apparently, they _had_ done this job in Norway. He'd wondered, but Don usually took care of those details, and his translation program uploaded automatically. The agency hadn't mentioned a rival insertion team.

"Why did it take you so long?" he asked. His back tensed.

Don sucked in a breath. His hands clenched. "I had to kill a lot of people to get to you."

Charlie felt his shoulders creep down from his neck. He was being stupid. The installation had been full of people. Still, it was nice to hear there'd been a reason.

"Oh," he said. "All right then."

Don cupped the back of Charlie's head, tilting it upwards. He tugged and Charlie came forward, burrowing into Don's chest--finally, something the height was good for-- and Don's mouth sucked at his bottom lip. Charlie whimpered, cold and hot and _tight_ in all the ways he didn't want to feel again.

Fucking Heisenberg. He didn't _like_ the messy bits.

Charlie opened his mouth, and Don's tongue slipped inside, coppery and slick. He whimpered, pushing for more, and Don's hands cupped his ass, holding him against Don's hard cock. Charlie latched on to Don's shoulders. He bit down on the tongue in his mouth, suckling until Don moaned.

They crashed into the side of the alley, Charlie with his back to the rough stone, and Don pushed him further, until it felt like his spine was indenting the concrete. Charlie spread his legs, rubbing against Don's thigh when it slipped into the space between. Don's hands moved under his shirt, counting Charlie's ribs by touch and caressing each vertebra of his spine.

Don's mouth carved a path down from Charlie's lips, sucking bites into his skin, and that _couldn't_ be healthy even after cleaning up all the blood, but Charlie couldn't have stopped for six gunmen with rifles pointed at his head.

"Don't go so far," Charlie groaned, raising his chin.

"Never," Don said. "I promised, I promised."

Cloth torn at his collar. Don's fingers turned grasping, ripping the seams until skin pebbled in the cool night air. Charlie panted, gulping at breath. His chest--the knot there throbbed, splintered under each heavy thrust of Don's cock against his own.

Charlie felt his face crumple, and bit his lip. He wanted _skin_, wanted R &amp; R for an entire fucking week, and if he didn't get it, he was going to crash the entire eastern seaboard--for _free_ this time.

Don reached between them, unbuttoning Charlie's fly. They kissed again, slick and messy. He dragged his teeth against the grain of stubble on Charlie's chin, then broke free of Charlie's hold.

Charlie whined, cold all along his front, but the heat rushed back in when Don went to his knees. He braced his hands on Charlie's hips, mouthing at Charlie's cock, still trapped beneath his boxers.

Blood pounded at Charlie's temples, swirling the broken pieces of the knot in his chest along in the current. Don sucked hard, wetting the fabric. His tongue wiggled in the slit of Charlie's boxers. Charlie groaned. His hands came down hard on top of Don's, sliding down Don's forearms to his shoulders. He wrapped his fingers in the straps of Don's tac vest and yanked, thrusting his hips up.

"Take me out," he said, "please…"

Don leaned away, took that gorgeous mouth off his cock, and licked his lips, staring up at Charlie. Charlie squirmed, pulling against Don's hold, yanking at the tac vest.

"What do you say?" Don asked.

His mouth was red, flushed with blood and spit-slick, a burning, perfect circle Euclid would have killed to create, and it belonged to Charlie. It owned Charlie, because he'd been born lucky, blessed even. He'd been born to good people, wonderful parents who'd given him support and love and Don so that he'd never, ever, know a day when he wasn't loved and supported and able to do _anything_ if only Donny said he could.

His cock throbbed, caught beneath increasingly freezing, wet cotton.

"S--suck me," he said. "Don."

Don yanked Charlie's boxers to knees, trousers falling to the street, and swallowed Charlie's cock. Charlie shouted, thrusting inside, trapped by the sight of his brother on his knees, spit at the corners of his full mouth.

He shuddered. The angle of the street light kept their corner of the alley in shadow, but Charlie could see the moment Don took his own cock in hand. The tac vest in his hands rolled with the muscles moving in Don's shoulders. He pulled back, swirled his tongue around the head of Charlie's cock and then took him in deeper, warm and good and _home_.

Charlie grabbed him close, pushing Don's face into his groin and came. Don swallowed around him, opening his throat and taking Charlie in. Finally, Charlie slumped, falling over onto Don and to his knees. He reached between them, interlacing his hand with Don's and rubbing the circumcision scar on Don's cock. He fumbled his mouth against the point of Don's jaw, licking his way to his brother's mouth as their hands slid up and down, tight at the base and even tighter at the head.

Thrusts rocked up into Charlie's body, rolling like the ocean. He gripped harder, added a nail along the vein on the underside of Don's cock. Don broke free of Charlie's mouth, panting harshly to the sky as warmth spread between them, sticky and thick.

For a moment, they stopped moving, content to nuzzle and catch their breath. Then Don pulled away, untangling himself from Charlie's hands. He pulled them to their feet and stepped back, doing up his pants. Charlie did the same. They changed clothes quickly, throwing their-bloodstained clothes into the dumpster and dragging replacements out of the abandoned box hidden in one corner. Megan did good work.

Charlie ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the curls at his nape. He patted the knife in his pocket. He looked up and Don kissed him, bussing his lips quickly. He'd stuffed the rifle into a traveler's backpack, just one more backpacking American in a sea of them.

"Extraction's in twenty," Don said. "Come on."

He already had his matchbook out, ready to light a fire in the dumpster and erase the evidence. He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Charlie's ear, fingers lingering on the soft spot Charlie had just behind his earlobe.

"You did so good today," he said, and Charlie grinned.

Don turned away, ducking his head to the side. The air smelled crisp, a hint of snow maybe for tomorrow. Charlie preceded him out of the alley, waiting until he heard the hiss of a match being struck before exiting out on to the street.


End file.
